


Dream No More

by Agnes_Bean



Category: The Wire
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Baltimore, Canonical Character Death, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 08:17:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2805791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Agnes_Bean/pseuds/Agnes_Bean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Normally, it's easier for Avon not to remember.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dream No More

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GreenPhoenix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreenPhoenix/gifts).



> GreenPhoenix, I was delighted when I saw my assignment — _The Wire_ in one of my very favorite canons in the world, and I think Avon and Stringer's arc is one of the best things to ever happen on TV, so I'm always happy for a reason to revisit it. I hope you enjoy this fic as much as I enjoyed writing it, and are having a great holiday season!
> 
> Also, thanks so much to my beta, Bookcat!

_Avon grips a bottle of whiskey to his chest as he stares at the cold grey wall of his cell; it's cheap and it burns, but it's what Wee-Bey could get. He's not upset about it. Today is not a day for celebrating, today is not a day for enjoying what he's drinking._

_Today is a day for remembering._

_He doesn't do it often. He can't. He learned quick that the only way to keep it together was to not think about Stringer. Not remember. Not what Stringer did to him, not what he did to Stringer. Not what they'd been to each other — none of it._

_Except for once a year, Stringer's birthday, today. Today Wee-Bey brings him a bottle of whatever, and plays watchdog. Today, Avon doesn't talk to anyone._

_Today he remembers._

* * *

 

He remembers the first time he realized he had no idea what went on in Stringer's head.

Well, maybe he always knew; his friend actually read books for school and asked questions in class, hung around the corners sometimes but shrugged it off when offered work. But that was just String. A little odd, a little intense, maybe even going to hit up college some day (he tried not to think about that, the vague idea of a future where he'd be left alone). Still, String was his brother, he got it, whatever “it” was; at twelve Avon wouldn't have been able to say.

That's what he thought. Then the trip to the aquarium happened.

Wasting a Saturday visiting an aquarium was dumb to begin with, but Wee-Bey was obsessed with the idea, and String knew these girls, and one had an older sister working in the cafeteria, so they could sneak in free. The girls were pretty cute, just getting to the age where they'd mastered makeup, short skirts, and charming smiles, so, fine. Aquarium. Whatever.

Avon doesn't remember the whole trip, of course. He remembers the older sister, big tits ready to burst out of a tight uniform, sharp nails painted pink, bored with her job and them and certainly with his feeble preteen attempts at flirting. He remembers that it was darker than he expected, tanks of blue glowing one after another, flicks of color as fish darted by. That was good, the dark, he could melt into the shadows when smiling white families wandered by, suburban moms with neat outfits and chatty children, dads in shlubby tees and Orioles caps.

But mostly it's the shark tank he remembers, three stories of ramps spiraling downwards, deadly monsters drifting by on every side. It was like being in the ocean; not waves and sand and that shit you saw in movies, but the _real_ ocean, deep. It was enough to make him stop and ponder.

“Man, these motherfuckers are legit,” Avon told String. They stood side by side, leaning on a rail, the girls elsewhere — they hadn't been very impressed with Avon’s flirting, either — Wee-Bey long lost, left behind on the tropical fish. A gray beast floated by, scattering smaller fish. “Rulers of the sea. Like we gonna be on the streets, one day.”

He said that a lot, at the time. Had only recently gotten it into his head that he was the son of Butch Stamford, and maybe that meant something. Really meant something. Not like the other corner boys and their empty brags, but like he could do it, run the streets when it came his time.

Normally String played along. This was when he was supposed to jump in with something nice they'd have; cars and cribs and all the girls in the world. But instead he just watched the shark, eyes narrow. Avon knew that look, it was his thinking look, the look he got before he said some fool thing and tried to make it sound all philosophical.

“Nah, it's the little fish that eat out of the shark's mouth that got it made,” he finally said.

“What?” It was such a wrong thought Avon didn't even know what to say. “The shark is... it's sharks. Ain't nothing more badass than that.”

String nodded. “Sure, they cool. But man, they're these little dudes who eat parasites and stuff off the shark. And they get protection from the shark, and the sharks don't eat them. So they don't got to do nothing but chill, and eat, and stay out of trouble. How're you gonna tell me they aren't the ones _really_ living the life?”

“Well...” Avon knew String was wrong, but he didn't know how to say it. Sharks were sharks. You wanted to be a shark. That's all there was to it. “They're just lame. Hanging on. Sound like some banger's girlfriend.”

“I don't think they're lame. They sound pretty smart to me.”

“You're seriously telling me you'd rather be some stupid hanging on fish than a shark? A killer shark?”

String suddenly turned his gaze on Avon, sharp eyes, deep frown. So serious. It made Avon nervous, like there was something going on behind those eyes he didn't begin to understand. “No, you right man,” he said after a pause. “Obviously. Killer shark. That's where it's at.”

But when he smiled and punched Avon in the arm, it seemed forced, and Avon knew he was lying. That's when he realized he was right, he really _didn't_ have any idea what was going on in his best friend's brain.

A shark's a shark. What kind of person couldn't see that?

* * *

 

He remembers the first time there was a glimmer that maybe something wasn't normal about their friendship; though maybe he didn't really realize it at the time. After so many years it's hard to know what's real, and what was added later.

They were at the gym, Avon swinging, Stringer holding the punching bag in place. Stringer didn't box, but he liked that Avon did. Said it gave him respectability. He was big on that at the time, talking about owning his own store one day, not entirely convinced by Avon's big talk about running more corners, then the whole damn game. It was stupid, Avon knew in the end Stringer was Stringer, he'd be by his side no matter what, so why argue? Still, it meant he'd come down to the gym to hold Avon's bag when there was no one else to help.

A familiar scene, repeated so many times they normally blended together, day after day, year after year of an amateur dream that never matured to the big leagues. (Sometimes Avon wonders where he could be if he'd been a little better — but never mind.)

This day, though, he remembers.

“Come on man, get to it and hit this mutherfucker!” String was also like a second coach, tough, always wanted Avon to be better. That was okay, it gave him a reason to fight, punching with every muscle, attacking the bag like it was all the cocky assholes standing in his way.

Sometimes he needed the motivation, but not this day. This day it was there as he wailed on the tattered bag, ripping into it with sweat pooling on his shoulders, dripping down his neck and back. This day he was mad, blistering; he'd been passed over for a promotion and that idiot Harrison who could barely hold a piece or throw a punch had moved up. He whacked at the bag, each thudding hit a scream of frustration.

“Whoa man, it ain't actually your opponent,” String protested as the bag spun out of control. “Cool it.”

The words were like a punch themselves, breaking his concentration. “Cool? You want me to be cool when Harrison got my goddamn post?” He swung again, pointless and wild, sloppy. That just made him angrier. “That should have been me, you know it.”

“I do. But you'll get it next time, B.” String's voice was calm, steady, the way he always got when Avon was mad.

He'd used that voice since they were tots fighting over toys, but today it sent a flash of anger up Avon's spine. He wasn't having a temper tantrum. Any fucker could see he'd been fucked over, and even his best friend didn't get to talk him out of knowing that was wrong.

“ _Next_ time? You think this happens like _that?_ ” Punch for emphasis, muscles burning. “You know we're not expanding no territory right now. Next time won't come 'round 'til someone gets shot.”

“Or 'till someone steals, or makes a wrong move, or you prove you too smart _not_ to promote.” Still that tone, gentle. A tone to match those words — like they were talking about some job in an office, white collar proper, not the streets.

“You don't know shit.” Avon remembers that moment like it was today, a jolt of an idea, fully formed. A realization that had been stuck, itching at the back of his mind for months, making him tense and snappy with the the person who was supposed to have his back. “You don't know shit, and that's my problem, String. You.”

Avon remembers the look on String's face at that, too. Tight jaw, wide eyes. Tense pause. Stringer Bell, at a loss for words. That was never a common thing.

“What're you talking about, Avon?” he eventually said. A voice gone cold, but Avon noticed the note of fear.

“I'm talking about all your talk.” He wasn't punching anymore, but his hands were still tense in his gloves, like he wanted to, like at any moment he could take a swing, and not at the bag. “Your bullshitting about straightening up, helping the community. Your grocery store.” Scorn. Pure scorn. The whole idea had always been fantasy, something he let String say because who was he to say no? But what if he was right? If it was hurting him? “It makes you seem soft, String. Makes _me_ seem soft having you by my side.”

“What... What are you saying?” Not cold anymore, all fear, and suddenly Stringer had moved from the bag to his side, hand clutching his wrist; a burning contact, so tight it hurt. “That you want me gone?”

The idea was a ton of bricks lobbed at Avon's head; it tore through his stomach like nausea. His mind staggered, the rage knocked out.

No. No, not that.

He lay a gloved hand over the one gripping his wrist. “No,” he heard himself say. “What're you, stupid? I just want you to stop talking that shit.”

“Oh.” Stringer released his grasp, a smile spreading across his face, the kind of smile that was normally saved for Christmas, so rare Avon always forgot what it looked like until it showed up again. A smile that felt, in this moment, like the hand pulling him back from the edge. “Yeah. I can do that.”

The smile didn't go away, and Avon found himself returning it, until suddenly they both burst out laughing — the soul-deep laughs of two people who had almost lost something too important to fully grasp.

* * *

 

He remembers their first time. Well, as much as you can remember anything that’s hidden in the haze of alcohol.

“Us.”

Their glasses clinked to the refrain, five, seven, so many times Avon lost count, started it, lost it again.

They clinked in the seedy darkness of a strip club, girls gyrating, flaunting flesh in the background, unimportant next to the euphoria of dreams realized.

“Success!”

They clinked in a bar, bottles flashing, throwing ice at each other in playful joy, waving away the bouncers who glared but knew better than to come too close, bringing over every babe with a low-cut dress and sky-high heels.

“To Avon!”

They clinked at a house party; even that night Avon couldn't have told you whose. Someone from the crew, someone whose lot had just flipped, from nothing to something, from nothing to kings. It was real, Avon could taste success; the high carried him stumbling down the streets of Baltimore from bar to bar to house to house, better than any hit off the best product.

He had never worried about the drugs, never been tempted beyond what was needed to have a good time, never wanted to lose sight of where he was going. But if this was how those strung out, bruised up junkies felt — well, he understood why you could build an empire on them.

“Us, man.”

The clinks brought them back to Avon's apartment as the sun was creeping above the buildings, just them, him and String, unwilling to end the party because then they'd wake up and remember the war was never won; a decisive blow just meant more decisions, more battles, more fight.

The walls of the apartment were a grubby yellow that had once been white, before years of smoke stains. He crashed onto a tattered couch, String sinking into a stained armchair across from him.

“What a night,” Avon mused, bright poster of a bikini clad model blurring across the room. He toyed with the glass that was somehow in his hand, realized it was empty, reached for a bottle by his feet, realized that was empty. “What now?”

“Next we solidify our hold,” String replied, voice somehow solid and clear, as if this were any other day, as if all the drinks were nothing. How'd he do that? “You just made your rep, but now you have to show you know how to run a business smart. I've been thinking – ”

Avon's hand was heavy as he held it up, brushing away the work. Tomorrow, that was for tomorrow. Even if it was tomorrow already. Alright. Later. That was for later.

“Hold up, String, I mean _now_. This moment. Like...” The bikini poster beckoned. “I know some girls we can call.”

“Oh.” Stringer turned to look at the poster, then turned back, gaze on Avon. It was a strange look, like he was sizing him up. But what was there to size? They already knew each other inside and out. “Nah.”

Suddenly — was it suddenly? Time confuses him in this memory, but it felt sudden — String wasn't in the chair anymore. He was on the couch, an arm slung behind Avon's head, body pressing against his side, warm. Familiar.

“Tonight's about you.” And then his hand was on Avon's crotch, grabbing hard and confident through his pants. “Us.”

Avon remembers how his brain failed to work then. How he meant to shove away, disgusted. _What the hell? Is this some joke?_ He remembers thinking it, almost meaning it.

But instead he found himself kissing his best friend, the sting of alcohol on both their breaths, ragged and panting as Stringer pushed him down into the couch.

* * *

 

He remembers when he understood that all those years of not getting Stringer, they added up to a problem. Maybe they'd always been a problem, and he hadn’t wanted to see it. Maybe not; String’s take on the world had kept the cops off their backs, he had to admit that. But now, it was a problem.

It was also the last time they ever slept together. (He doesn’t think about what that means.)

It was just a few weeks after he got out of jail, and the second time they’d wound up in his bed since then. The first time — well, Avon tries not to think about that night (desperate and joyful, angry and pained, guilty and soft), not even today, not ever.

This time, though, wasn't much of anything. A quick fuck, rough, moaning, done. Like it normally was, something they did and didn't talk about.

It wasn't the fuck that was the problem, anyway. It was after, as Avon sat propped in the expansive bed Stringer had provided him, watching the man he once thought he could trust no matter what pull on his pants, brisk and businesslike.

(He doesn't like to think about this moment, either, but he forces himself to. Every year.)

“So, listen, B, we need to talk about the co-op.”

He remembers Stringer's tone (always it's the way Stringer talked that he remembers, the subtle differences that meant so much). Here it was measured, like he was hoping to trick Avom into agreeing in this moment of weakness. He was obsessed with that damn co-op. Already it was driving Avon crazy, that peace making bullshit, the business terms Stringer liked to toss around. If he wanted to make nice with Prop Joe, that was fine. But the more he talked about the corners not mattering the more Avon felt caged, betrayed.

Of course the corners mattered. It was like String had forgotten who they were.

He sighed. He remembers that sigh, too, the way it rumbled through his chest, a repressed scream of frustration.

“Why you trying to ruin a good afternoon with this?” Flattery usually got somewhere with Stringer. Coming from him, anyway. Not many people knew that secret; Avon knew when to keep things close.

But it didn't work. Not this time.

“Why _you_ going to ruin a good thing with your gangsta bullshit?” String snapped back.

Avon slumped back into his pillows, grabbing an extra one and throwing it over his face, pulling down, hiding from this argument like a bad hangover he couldn’t shake. Again, this argument. Gangster _bullshit_?

String really had lost it somewhere along the way. Or maybe he was the one who was going crazy. Someone was, because things weren't right. His second in command was out of control and he didn’t even understand what he _wanted_. Renovating buildings and sitting around meetings? It wasn’t right.

Stringer's sweat clung to the fabric over his face; he breathed in, the scent of a time when things made sense.

He tossed the pillow across the room.

“You know what String? Fuck this right now. Just go.”

He remembers how Stringer paused, shirt in hand, looking like he was ready to fight. But instead he shrugged, pulled the shirt over his head, and did exactly what Avon said: He left.

* * *

 

_Avon takes a burning swig and lifts the bottle to the empty cell._

_“Us.”_


End file.
